And I'm Welcome No More
by MutedClamour
Summary: "To die by your side. the pleasure, the privilege is mine." Sherlock/John. Major Character Death.


Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they belong to the bbc and Arthur Conan Doyle  
_

"Sherlock." John murmured. "Sherlock..."

The detective groaned as he regained consciousness, trying to shift through the rubble, but finding his legs caught under something. He blinked, opening his eyes to see the older man under him from what little light peaked through an opening. It would have been an intimate position if they weren't covered in dust and obvious cuts along the side of John's face.

_It all happened so fast. Gun fire. Boom. The room ablaze and quickly collapsing. He ran and covered John as the doctor raised his arm as if to shelter himself from the explosion. There was the force of the explosives, pushing them across the pool, walls tearing apart and something blunt hitting the detective over his head. Everything going black. _

Sherlock flinched as he tried moving his left hand to touch the doctor, but found it broken. He was thankful that he could use the other, grasping onto John's upper arm for reassurance that he was there with him.

It was dark, what remnants of the pool remaining. Sherlock could hear the trickling of water somewhere. They were covered by a large piece of rubble, the end, crushing Sherlock's leg. It was difficult to assess the damage, but he predicted a good few months of recovery.

"Cold." John murmured under him. Sherlock could barely see the man's face but he felt the small shudders going through his body. His sweater was soaked, yet the smell of chlorine did not reach his senses.

_Blood._

Sherlock lowered his good hand and skimmed gently over the fabric. Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, he recognized the thick consistency of the liquid and felt his stomach drop. _John._

"You're wounded." Sherlock murmured, staring down at the growing stain of blood at John's chest. He absently tried to reach for his phone; but found it missing. "How?"

"Bloody sniper got a lucky shot." John turned his head, most likely feeling Sherlock's eyes burning into him. The detective grabbed at the edge of his sweater, pulling it up as best as he could.

It was hard to see through the dark, but Sherlock could see the outline of the hole at John's side. He stared with wide eyes, silence between them besides the skipping breath of the doctor.

"I'm dying, Sherlock." John began. Sherlock raised his head, mouth falling agape.

"Stop with this rubbish, you're-" He stopped with the feel of John's hand grazing his arm. It was meant to be reassuring, but Sherlock felt no comfort in the touch, dreading it being the last one he'd ever have from the man under him.

"Please don't get upset,"

"I'm not, I'm - Who'll be my partner?" Sherlock continued, louder now, feeling his control slipping. Breaking his sociopath image.

"Colleague." John grinned. Sherlock blinked before letting a weak smile slip across his lips.

"Oh, shut it." Sherlock laughed weakly. His shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. There was a silence between them, the only sound coming from the ever so often dripping of water somewhere.

"You'll find another." John murmured, his voice growing softer. Sherlock hesitated, trying to image himself with someone else solving cases. Someone else sharing his flat. Their things replacing him, their scent slowly replacing John's in his room.

"No, you don't understand." Sherlock growled. "You cannot die, please." He could hear sirens. "Lestrade, Lestrade will be here soon,"

John watched Sherlock quietly, mouth slightly agape, trying to get what air he could. He could feel his body numbing. Using what strength he had left, he placed his hand at the back of the detective's neck and he suddenly fell silent. A slightly twitch at his hand and Sherlock seemed to be aware of what he was trying to do, leaning down and allowing their lips to graze softly.

The touch did not last long, Sherlock withdrawing to look into John's eyes, slowly fading. His heart clenched and he wished it was merely a nightmare, he would wake up back on the living room couch, getting up from his high and he would wander up to the doctor's room and would find him soundly sleeping. He would not admit to how many times he had done the very act.

"How much longer?" Sherlock dared ask.

"Few minutes. Five at best." John murmured. "I'm cold, Sherlock."

The detective blinked before quickly enveloping the older man the best he could. John sighed or more so, grunted as Sherlock's chest grazed against his bullet wound. They breathed in unison. Short breaths. Hesitant. Waiting.

"Moriarty?" John asked, his lips at the shell of the detective's ear.

"Don't worry about him." Sherlock replied, his mind far away from cases and deductions for once.

He buried his head at the nape of the doctor's neck, quietly listening to John's breathing. His shoulders were tense and slowly began to acknowledge the pressure at his arm and leg, confirmed broken now. And they let the minutes tick by, simply enjoying what silence they had left together.

Sirens getting louder. Muffled yells. Rubble being moved. Footsteps.

"It's time, Sherlock." John rasped, his voice quieter than ever. Sherlock remained silent. His right hand twitched to touch the doctor. A tender goodbye. He was having trouble believing what was about to happen before his eyes. His heart sunk and it felt more than a long goodbye to a friend, not that he had experienced many in his lifetime.

_Someone yelled his name somewhere._

"I'm happy to have met you," John smiled softly. "To die by the side of the great Sherlock Holmes" he grunted at a sudden ache and felt himself slipping.

_Someone yelled for John elsewhere._

And when the doctor's life passed before his eyes, Sherlock did not cry.

The Scotland Yard eventually managed to find them under the rubble. Sherlock, unwilling to move from his position with the _sleeping_ doctor. Only when the detective inspector knelt down beside him and place a hand at his shoulder did he twitch, turning his head.

"You need to let go, Sherlock."

And he did.

"You should be released by the end of the week." Mycroft said.

A cast at his left arm and legs, Sherlock wheeled himself by the window. Staring down at the London streets, he retraced the routes him and John had ventured through so many times. He would be back at Baker Street by the end of the week. _Baker Street_. He had trouble calling it home again. It sounded so distant. A million miles away and there was only reason why. It was not home without John.

"I don't want to go." Sherlock murmured. His eyes clouded as he slipped into reverie. He expected some sort come back from his older brother, but did not receive one.

_He sat quietly amongst what remained of the pool, wrapped tightly with a blanket. The medics had come and wheeled John away long ago. And yet, the detective stared at the spot they lay moments ago. A large bloodstain lay on the tile mirroring the one on his shirt. And for once he admitted to not being able to deduct something. Why did this have to happen to him?_

His mouth felt try and yet, the sweet taste of tea suddenly overwhelmed him, the sight of a steaming cup appearing from at the side of his desk, connected to a hand and beige jumper sleeve. Never again. _A bit not good. _No laughing at the bottom of the stairway. No more complaints over his experiments in the kitchen. No more milk. He forced himself to laugh at the last one, and again, and found himself unable to stop the shaking.

He let out a choked sob, finally realizing the reason his heart clenched the way it did.

And at last, he wept.


End file.
